


Molasses

by grosss



Series: Submissive Gerard Verse [1]
Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: BDSM, Blood, Bottom Gerard Way, Choking, Chubby Gerard Way, Dom/sub Undertones, Fantasizing, I'm having second thoughts, Is RPF appropriate?, Jesus - Freeform, M/M, Masochism, Masturbation, Other, People complain about excessive tags but I think they can be funny when done right, Revenge Era, Sadomasochism, Sub Gerard Way, Van Days, is that appropriate? are we fetishizing his body? fuck I'm sorry, oh well, rest stop fun time, which is really just canon but I'm going to mention it because it's hot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:55:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21674836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grosss/pseuds/grosss
Summary: Jerking off in a rest stop bathroom isn't the worst thing Gerard has ever done, but it may be the most unsanitary.
Relationships: Frank Iero/Gerard Way
Series: Submissive Gerard Verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1567909
Comments: 8
Kudos: 99





	Molasses

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trying to be consistent with tour dates, my idea was that all of these take place during the same tour in early 2004 (I'm not going off of actual dates at all, just making up a route.) According to this fic they drove north from Oklahoma to Minnesota, this takes place at a stop in Iowa, which means they would have done a funny little jaunt north and then south again, but this is fiction, and I'm only doing my best.
> 
> Disclaimer #2: This is a work of fiction, all resemblances to living persons is purely a fictional, fantastical representation and I do not claim to know or accurately represent individuals involved. 
> 
> Disclaimer #3: I do not claim to have any knowledge of Gerard Way's actual sexual orientation, this is purely fictional. His business is his business and this is only a representation and a fictionalized character. 
> 
> That being said: Uh, have fun. This is kinky and gross. Whatever. There's a serious deficit of submissive Gerard verse out there, so I'm taking matters into my own hands. I'm sorry. Ugh
> 
> Setting loosely based off of Gas Station Sandwiches by Marshv.

Oklahoma, March 27th, 2004

Gerard coughs, choking, mostly for show. He runs his free hand down the front of his shirt, over the front of his black jeans- they need replacing soon, he thinks, too many washes and too much sweat-water-whiskey-hotel-washing-machines damage. The fabric is thinning in places that even grosses him out. He runs his free hand over the front of his jeans, also for show. His right hand pinches the microphone between his thumb and middle finger, balancing it as best he can as his other fingers grip the cord that is carefully wrapped once around his neck. Gerard's always been a performer, stage fright be damned. Always dramatic, always moving and creating and making a fuss. He closes his eyes for a split second, not wanting to look at the crowd of strangers. The cord is dangerously tight around his neck, slipping on the warm and sticky craft store blood that's dripped down his neck from his temples. He coughs once more, hand covering the obvious at his crotch. He's always been a performer, and there's no harm in having a little fun.

Iowa, sometime in early April, 2004

Jerking off in a rest stop bathroom isn't the worst thing Gerard has ever done, he thinks as he rounds the corner of the cement-on-cement building. They're somewhere in Iowa, stopped off of I-35. It's been eight hours of grass and farms and Dairy Queens that haven't been remodeled since 1989, but he's grateful for the break, glad he can rest after the constant commotion of tour, glad to sit in the van for a while and not have to go anywhere or talk to anyone, a break from the dehydration and sweat and the constant fear of losing his voice. Oklahoma was hot and windy, Kansas was all an earthy blur. He'd been asleep for most of it, anyway.

Jerking off in a rest stop bathroom isn't the worst thing Gerard has ever done, but it may be the most unsanitary, and he's been there and done that too, been covered in a number of his own and others' bodily fluids, has gone on tour and hadn't had access to showers, been depressed and had access to but chose not to shower. He's picked cigarette butts off of the sidewalk and attempted to smoke them. He's almost, but not quite, peed himself on a number of occasions. But this? This just might be the worst. He pauses outside of the restroom, pulling his jacket tighter around himself as the wind whips around the side of the building, fishing in his inside pocket for his cigarettes. If he waits, feigns boredom, the guys will leave him alone for a bit. A small part of him hopes that the urge will go away completely. Will the nicotine kill his pathetic half-boner? Will his brain be buzzing too much to care? He watches the semi trucks barrel down the freeway in front of him as he smokes, trying and failing to catch the blurry logos with his eyes. They're all going south, away from the city where they just played. They have another three hours to go, but that won't feel so bad.

The wind changes direction, blowing his own smoke into his face and he coughs again, remembering the show two nights before, remembering why he's lurking around a rest stop bathroom in the first place. His stomach turns in excitement and he tosses his cigarette, making sure to find a proper disposal, before glancing around and slipping into the bathroom, door heavy under his shaky post-smoke break fingers. He's glad it's a single stall, not wanting to think about the horrendous things he would have done otherwise. He locks the door behind him, glancing around the room. It really isn't that bad, as far as public restrooms go- maybe the facility has a more rigorous cleaning schedule, as so many people come through in a day. Maybe the state of Iowa has a high parks budget, and it all goes to their janitors. There's soap in the dispenser, paper towels, and nothing too alarming on the floor save for some dirt that's been tracked in from outside. He shrugs his jacket off and lays it on the floor, sinking to his knees, thinking of the last time he'd been in that position; there was a woman, in Arkansas last year, a stage hand- he remembers hands in his hair, face pressed to her crotch.

He thinks then to Frank, his intensity, the anger that he always seemed to harbor. His tattooed fingers. Those goddamn fingers. Gerard sighs then, pulling his sweatshirt out of the way and unbuckling his belt, wrists brushing over his soft stomach, letting his mind go places he only lets it go on occasion, late at night, as if his thoughts can be read during the day. He thinks about how fucked he looks, jeans tight over his crotch and around his waist, hair shoved out of his eyes so he can concentrate. He thinks about Frank finding him, really lets his mind go there, thinks about Frank commenting on how _thick_ he is, decorated fingers wrapping around his dick, and maybe Gerard won't know exactly which part he's talking about, and maybe he's more than a little okay with that.

He finally wraps his hand around himself, biting back a loud noise of relief- it's been too long, much too long, but he isn't about to make a scene in an empty bathroom prone to echoes. Gerard whines through his nose, squeezing himself tight, almost too tight, not unlike the microphone cord he'd wrapped around his neck. His breath catches in his throat as he remembers, wishes he'd been alone instead of onstage in front of far too many people, wishes someone had been holding the other end.

-

"That's not very safe," Frank had said to him, not meeting his gaze, packing up his gear. His voice had sounded low, calculated, but perhaps it had just been Gerard's imagination.  
"What?" Gerard had panted, still out of breath, ears still ringing, towel around his neck. Frank jerked his head towards the empty stage. "That stunt you pulled, that cord. Should be careful."  
Gerard had opened his mouth, about to brush him off, when Frank continued. "Don't want our singer passing out. I don't have the range you do." Frank had cracked a smile finally, but Gerard was miles away, feeling on the verge of passing out himself.

-

Gerard's knees are beginning to ache, although a part of him doesn't mind that, either. He closes his eyes, still breathing through his nose in an effort to stay quiet and avoid any germs in the air. He's seen Frank kick shit before, out of boredom and out of anger, seen him knock over equipment and garbage cans and a guy at a gig one time, and Gerard thinks about his sneakers, about the print on the bottom, what it would feel like against the side of his face, what his cheek would feel like forcefully pressed against the cold tile of the bathroom floor. He chokes out a moan again, trying in vain to slick up his palm with his own leaking dick. Frank's never been truly pissed off at him, they got along aside from a few spats here and there, but Gerard wishes sometimes, wonders what it would be like, what he would do. Perhaps his fingers would come down on Gerard's neck, squeezing harder than he's currently squeezing himself, other hand yanking at his hair, his-  
Gerard pauses, stops moving his hand, stops breathing altogether as footsteps approach the door. He's about to give up, stand up and wash off, when Frank seemingly leans against the other side of the door. "You good?"

  
Gerard still doesn't breathe, doesn't say anything. He can hear Frank shuffling his feet on the pavement outside. He knocks on the door one time, not too forcefully, succinct. "We gotta go, if you aren't sick or something, hurry up. Jesus." He's not mad, but the sound of his voice, the urgency of his tone sets Gerard off. The footsteps fade and Gerard bites his lip, tasting blood, and comes into his hand, narrowly missing the fly of his jeans. Gerard stands up on weak legs, grabbing handfuls of toilet paper and washing his hands- twice, as if it'll get rid of the embarrassment of touching himself in a bathroom like a teenager. He makes it back outside, stopping for a Coke from the vending machine on his way. Casual. Slow. Innocent. He slides back into his seat in the van, taking a long drink, avoiding anyone's eyes for a moment. Frank playfully shoves his shoulder, stretching his legs out. "We were all waiting on you, dumbass. I'll beat your ass next time." Frank chuckles, and Gerard nearly chokes on his drink.


End file.
